Military Manoeuvres

11

Military Manoeuvres

    The sun shone, the birds were still twittering their morning songs, though with less energy than they had some two hours since, the hedgerows of the Devon lanes were in heavy leaf, bees hummed in the flowering weeds well mixed with wild pink clover that thronged the ditches and verges… It was an idyllic scene. Certainly if you cared for the rural life. Mr Dinwoody, sitting on a gate placidly smoking a gnarled old pipe, looked as if he had not a care in the world.

    “’Ullo!” he said, removing the pipe, and grinning, as a small, nut-brown dog with remarkably short legs bustled up to him. “’Ow’s yourself, Troilus?” He got down and patted him. “So, where’s little Missy, hey?”

    Troilus wagged his tail, and licked his hand, but then looked anxiously over his shoulder, gave a little whine, made a little rush in the direction of the bend in the leafy lane whence he had come, stopped, pattered one or two steps back to Mr Dinwoody, stopped again, and whined again.

    Mr Dinwoody said a rude word under his breath, knocked his pipe out hurriedly on the gate, stowed it in his back breeches pocket, and, hitching said breeches with an automatic gesture and squaring the fine shoulders that most certainly suggested that the pugilistic implications of the nose and ears were no lie, said: “Summink up? Come on, then, fellow!” And headed for the bend, Troilus pattering along beside him as fast as his little legs would carry him.

    Miss Martin was discovered some hundred yards down the lane, sitting on a large boulder which might once have been used as a milestone, for it certainly had, under its moss and lichen, a something-or-another scratched into its surface. Sniffing into a crumpled handkerchief.

    “What they done?” demanded Mr Dinwoody without preamble.

    She looked up, tried to smile, and burst into snorting sobs. Whereat Mr Dinwoody simply sat down beside her on the boulder, perforce very close, and put his arm round her.

    After quite some time she looked up and sobbed: “Deirdre—wanted—Troilus!” And burst into fresh sobs.

    It took a while, but Mr Dinwoody finally got her calmed down and got the full story out of her. Miss Deirdre Dearborn, it appeared, had conceived of a desire to be the owner of Troilus. His mistress had refused to give him up, even though it would have meant admitting him into the house. Deirdre had tried everything to persuade her, but having failed, had screamed that if she couldn’t have him, no-one could; and had run to tell her mother that he had tried to bite her. Forthwith Mrs Dearborn had ordered the dangerous animal to be destroyed. Belle Dearborn, roused out of her normal placidity, had tried to tell her mamma it was one of Deirdre’s lies, but had merely been sent to bed without supper and with the threat of not being allowed to dine at Hartshorne Hall on the morrow if she continued to tell malicious tales of her little sister. Possibly the outcome would have been the same whichever servant had been ordered to carry out the dread order, for they had all become very fond of Miss Martin; but as Alf Hollis had been the appointed executioner nothing at all had happened except that Alf had smuggled the little dog home under his coat to Ma’s cottage. Where Miss Martin was welcome to visit him any old day!

    “But,” she concluded, mopping her eyes with Mr Dinwoody’s large handkerchief, and sniffing hard, “there is no saying when Deirdre may not find out and report them. And then the fat will truly be in the fire, fuh-for they are living in one of Cousin Dearborn’s cottages, and Mr Hollis has a bad leg, and Mrs Hollis has to take in washing to muh-make ends meet—”

    “I know,” he said, hugging her. “Hush. Blow yer nose.”

    She blew her nose hard. “I could not bear it,” she said earnestly, looking up into Mr Dinwoody’s battered face with big, trusting eyes, “if anything were to happen to Troilus.”

    Mr Dinwoody had to swallow hard. “No, ’course you couldn’t. ’E’s all what you've got left, hey? Besides being a great little dawg, in ’imself.”

    “Mm! You do understand!” she said with a shaky smile.

    “Aye. –Look, seems to me it’s time you got out of it. Has that lad of theirs turned up from ’is college, yet?”

    “Not yet. I think he is due at the end of the month,” she said, blowing her nose again.

    “Aye. Well, yer don’t want to stay on until they try to make you agree to marry him, do you? Look, I ’eard tell,” he said, rubbing his unlovely nose, “as ’ow yer acting friends was coming down this way. Well, Mr Briggs, ’e had a letter. –Bumped into ’im at the King’s ’Ead when I was up Axminster way t’other day,” he said on a careless note which might have alerted a maiden less upset and rather more experienced than she to the fact that there was something spurious in this story.

    “Really?” she gasped.

    “Yes. A Mr H., would that be right? A Mr H. is bringing ’is troupe down, and they’re going to do a play at—um—Exley St Paul. That’s between Sidmouth and Axminster: you turn off at the fork for Ottery St Mary by the back road,” he said unilluminatingly, “only then you turn off again. Well, don’t think it’s more than a church and a couple of cottages, Miss Martin, only there’s a big house there what belongs to some swell what’s decided he wants a play put on this June.” He looked hopefully at her.

    “Mr H. must be Mr Hartington!” she cried. “Oh, how wonderful! –Is Mrs Pontifex coming?”

    “Yes,” said Mr Dinwoody definitely.

    Perceiving nothing odd in this reply, she cried: “Oh! It seems like a miracle!”

    “So it do,” agreed Mr Dinwoody, eyeing the calm Devon sky with a completely blank face. “So it do.”

    “If I go to them,” she said with a determined expression, “I must be very sure that I do not become a burden to them. Perhaps I could play some small part, or walk on, at the least; and assist with the wardrobe, and learn the trade.”

    “Aye. –Look, if you just vanishes, there’ll be a hue and cry. Them Dearborns won’t let you go without a fuss. No, well, won’t let your grandfather’s fortune go without a fuss,” he said with a sour grimace.

    “I see. We must take very good care not to implicate the players, that is what you mean, is it not?”

    Whether or no it was, Mr Dinwoody nodded.

    “Then… Bother. I don’t see how I can manage it. –Troilus and I would have gone long since, only I have no money at all,” she said, very flushed. “And I could not possibly ask dear Miss Skate to help me: she would, of course, for she is very concerned at the way my cousins treat me. But she would lose the place, and Cousin Evangeline would never give her a recommendation, and so she would be without employment.”

    “No, well, you don’t need to bother her… Look, if you’ll trust me, I’ll take Troilus, that’ll get ’im out of harm’s way, and the Hollises won’t need to worry about being chucked out of their cottage. I’ll get on over to Axminster straight away and speak to Mr Briggs, and we’ll get you on up to him. Before,” said Mr Dinwoody, winking one shrewd eye very slowly, “the actors get here.”

    She clapped her hands and laughed. “Oh! Mr Dinwoody, you are a genius! And of course I trust you with Troilus!”

    “Aye… That don’t solve the problem of how we stops ’em making a hue and cry, though, Missy. Um… Look, suppose you was to write a letter, telling your cousins you’ve heard from your brother and he’s took you to that lord what you got the letter for?”

    “I do not precisely have a letter for the lord,” she said uncertainly.

    “Near enough. Tell ’em yer brother came down strong, acos he knows what was in your grandfather’s will!” said Mr Dinwoody with a sudden laugh.

    Perhaps regrettably, Miss Martin at this collapsed in ecstatic giggles, clapping her hands. Infected by her enthusiasm, Troilus ran round in small circles, barking excitedly.

    Mr Dinwoody grinned, but said severely: “That’s enough, now! Sit!”

    Miss Martin and Master Troilus both sat up very straight and looked at him expectantly.

    “Um,” said Mr Dinwoody, rubbing his nose. “Might be better if you was to write as yer brother.”

    “Ooh, yes!”

    “Good. I’ll get off to Axminster— Um, well, I’ve missed Jem Bolton’s cart. Never mind, I’ll get there by tonight and see Mr Briggs. Pick you up here on this stone tomorrow morning, early as you can make it!” he said, grinning.

    “Ye-es… But how shall we arrange the letter?”

    “Well, ’ow soon do you reckon you’ll be missed?”

    “Cousin Evangeline does not rise early… Miss Skate and I often breakfast together but she will say nothing if I am not there. Well, truly, I do not think I will be missed until the midday meal, and even then, they will probably not worry.”

    “Ah. Well, try and write it today, if you can manage it without them cats of little ones a-spyink over yer shoulder. Then late tomorrow,” said Mr Dinwoody with another slow wink, “a right-down dim messenger will turn up with a letter for Dearborn ’Ouse, dusty as all get out, and ’e won’t know nothing except a gent paid ’im to deliver it. What got on the Bournemouth stage at that instant.” He looked blandly at the sky.

    Miss Martin again informed him he was a genius. Mr Dinwoody allowed himself to smile. He did not think it was all bad, at that. For a spur-of-the-moment plan of attack.

    “Out of course she must come to us!” cried Mr Briggs.

    Mrs Briggs urged ginger cake with fresh Devonshire cream upon Mr Dinwoody. “Aye, that she must, poor lass.”

    “Thank you kindly, ma’am.” The thanks might have been in reference to the Briggses’ agreeing to take Miss Martin, or the cake; Mr Dinwoody munched stolidly. “Mind,” he said, swallowing, “she’ll probably want to make herself useful round the house.”

    “Well, that’ll be no problem: for there do always be one or two little things to be done that a young lass might do,” said Mrs Briggs, nodding the white frilled cap.

    “Aye. Good. I’d best be on me way, then.”

    Throwing up her hands, Mrs Briggs protested that of course he must stay the night! And Jonas would be up bright and early to take the trap out to Sandy Bay, for there was no way that she, Mrs Briggs, was having that lamb a-waiting on no stone a-wondering if they had forgot her! Mr Dinwoody demurred, but was overborne.

    “A head on him, he do have, that Bert Dinwoody,” said Mrs Briggs to Mr Briggs in the privacy of the marital chamber a little later that evening.

    “Aye…” agreed Mr Briggs thoughtfully. “Good strategist, he do be, eh? An Army man, most probably. Sergeant, I dare say. What do been used,” he said with a chuckle, “to showing them young captains and lieutenants and what-not ’ow it should be done!”

    “Aye, that’ll be it. …Jonas,” she said, as he got into bed, yawning widely, and snuffed his candle: “it do be a trifle odd, though. How’d he know them theatricals be coming down to Devonshire?”

    How, indeed? “Ah… ” said Mr Briggs slowly.

    “Didn’t you say he got on your coach at Bournemouth or some such? Not Lunnon, anyroad.”

    “Not Lunnon, no…” agreed Mr Briggs slowly. “Far as I know, he’d never laid eyes on any of them. Met Peebles on the coach, but you can’t count him!” he said with a chuckle. “Well, could of heard it over to Exley St Paul, I s’pose. Dare say Miss Martin’s chattered on to him enough about them all; might of recognised the names… No, you do be right, love, it’s odd. I’ll think about it. –Mind you, his heart do be in the right place, there do be no doubt about that!”

    Mrs Briggs agreed happily there was no doubt at all, and composed herself to sleep.

    Even although he would have a very early start in the morning, Mr Briggs did not immediately do likewise. He stared into the dark for some time, thinking. It was danged odd, all right. The only connection there seemed to be between Mr Dinwoody and the theatricals from Mr Buxleigh’s was the exceedingly tenuous one of his having met Peebles on the coach. Lilian reckoned that Peebles was more of a mouse than a man—though she had become somewhat obscure on the subject of muscles, and he had discounted most of what had followed. Well, say that Peebles had come on down to Devon in order to keep an eye on little Missy, and… Uh, was paying Dinwoody to watch out for her? On a lawyer’s clerk’s miserable wages? Mr Briggs shook his head. He was danged sure the two of them couldn’t of got together unobserved on the journey down, neither, for he himself had shared a room with Peebles during their overnight stops. We-ell… after Dinwoody had been discovered leaning against the shabby hire-coach from Sidmouth in the yard of the Axminster staging inn? Peebles could of spoken to him when he were supposed to be ordering up a horse. But it all seemed in the highest degree unlikely. And there was no denying that Dinwoody’s appearance did not inspire confidence: no man would choose him, on first acquaintance, as a likely protector for a young girl. Well, scrap Peebles.

    Then… Someone with Miss Martin’s best interests at heart had sent Dinwoody down to Southampton, with orders to follow her all the way to Devonshire? Ah, hah! A much likelier proposition! But who? Frowning, Mr Briggs rejected out of hand all of the occupants of Mr Buxleigh’s lodging house, the Beau included, except one. “Mr Sid?” he mouthed silently into the dark, raising his bushy eyebrows. There was no doubt that Roland Lefayne, if half of what Lilian had said about his success in his chosen profession were true, had the wherewithal to pay a stout fellow such as Mr Dinwoody to guard Miss Martin. And if they were in touch, that would explain how Dinwoody knew of the coming tour! Ah, hah, indeed! “Mr Sid,” mouthed Mr Briggs into the dark again, nodding to himself.

    At first there had been no inclination on the part of Dearborn House’s footman to let the dusty messenger in. Mr Dinwoody had expected this: he had stolidly insisted that he had a note for the master, refusing to hand it over. The footman had not quite shut the door on him while he consulted with his betters: Mr Dinwoody had thus been enabled to hear a certain amount of shouting, in which the phrase “that damned girl” had occurred. He had grinned to himself. Finally, and not entirely to his surprise, he was admitted to the sitting-room itself. Stolidly he enquired if the gentleman who received him was Mr Dearborn. Stolidly he ignored the very angry tone of the affirmative reply, and handed the letter over…

    He watched with interest as Mr Dearborn’s naturally rubicund cheeks turned a deep purple. With any luck the fellow would drop down of an apoplexy. Save a lot of trouble, that would.

    “This is unheard of!” he spluttered.

    Mrs Dearborn, looking coldly grim, rose and plucked the note from her spouse’s hand. “What?” she gasped.

    “What is it, Mamma?” cried Josephine.

    “Never mind. Girls, you may leave us.”

    Looking bewildered, Belle and Josephine rose and exited, casting wary glances at Mr Dinwoody as they went.

    “Fellow, where had you this note?” demanded Mr Dearborn.

    “Orf a gent what took the Bournemouth stage, sir,” replied Mr Dinwoody stolidly. “Said to get on out to Dearborn ’Ouse, Sandy Bay—”

    “Never mind that. What did he look like?” said Mr Dearborn tensely.

    Mr Dinwoody had not hitherto removed his very battered hat. Now he did so, and slowly scratched his grizzled head. “Uh—a youngish gent, s’pose you’d say.”

    Mrs Dearborn gave a gasp. “It must be he!”

    “Uh—red ’air,” ventured Mr Dinwoody.

    “Does he have red hair?” demanded Mr Dearborn of his spouse.

    “I have no notion. Wait: did not Belle mention something about the mother’s having had red hair?” She rang the bell and commanded the footman to fetch Miss Belle immediately.

    “Did this man have a young lady with him?” demanded Mr Dearborn grimly of Mr Dinwoody.

    Mr Dinwoody was tempted to say that he had had a girl and a small sausage-like dog with him, but refrained, in consideration of Alf Hollis’s need for continued employment, not to say the Hollis family’s need for a roof over their heads. “Uh—think so. Didn’t take that much notice, sir. The gent, ’e said to me, Take this note to Mr Dearborn, of—”

    “Yes!” said Mr Dearborn loudly.

    “Think there was a young lady. She got into the stage. Think she was with ’im.”

    “Then it is true!” said Mrs Dearborn angrily.

    “Did you want me, Mamma?” asked Belle cautiously from the doorway.

    “Yes. Come in, if you please, Belle, and do not hover in that unladylike way.”

    Belle came in, looking very puzzled, shutting the door after her. “Is it about Cousin Cressida?”

    “Kindly do not speak until you are spoken to, Miss,” said her mother grimly.

    Miss Dearborn’s lovely face flushed up and she said: “But Mamma, is she all right? Where is she?”

    “Never mind. I wish to ask you a question about your cousin’s brother, Belle. Pray concentrate your mind.”

    Belle nodded obediently.

    “Does he have red hair?” demanded Mrs Dearborn grimly.

    “Cuh-Cousin Cressida’s brother?” she faltered. “I have never seen him, Mamma: you know that.”

    “The girl,” said Mr Dearborn angrily: “is an imbecile! That does not come from the Dearborn side, I can assure you!”

    “That will do, Mr Dearborn, thank you,” replied his wife, icily cold. “I am aware you have never met your cousin, Belle. Did Cressida ever speak of him?”

    “Ye-es… I am trying to think, Mamma! Um, she did say that his hair was like their mother’s… Oh, yes! I remember!” said Belle pleasedly. “Josephine said that he sounded as ugly as Mr Peter Swallow from Exley St Paul,”—here the messenger might have been observed to twitch slightly—“and that she cannot abide ginger hair and freckles in a man!”

    “Was he an ugly ginger-haired fellow?” demanded Mr Dearborn of Mr Dinwoody.

    “’Oo?” he replied stolidly.

    “The man who gave you this NOTE!” he shouted furiously.

    “Oh, ’im. Beg pardon, I’m sure: thought we was talking of some gent what the young lady, here, knows. No, well, wouldn’t call ’im ugly. Pretty enough young gent, I s’pose. Didn’t take that much notice, sir. ’E said to me, Take this note to—”

    “YES!” shouted Mr Dearborn.

    Looking mildly puzzled, the messenger was silent.

    “It must have been he,” said Mrs Dearborn grimly.

    “Why did he not call at the house?” retorted her spouse.

    “Who can say? Possibly the girl has been in touch with him for months. She strikes as a sly little creature. The father was certainly cunning enough for anything.”

    “Mamma, you don’t mean Cousin Cressida, surely?” said Belle with an incredulous laugh.

    “Be silent, please, Belle.”

    “But where is she? What has happened?” she cried.

    “Be silent! –Where did you say this man was going?” she demanded fiercely of Mr Dinwoody.

    “Uh—the gent what give me the note? Dunno, ma’am. Well, ’e got on the Bournemouth stage,” he admitted.

    “You have come from Axminster, then?”

    “That’s right, ma’am. All the way from Axminster. The gent, ’e said to me, Take this n—”

    “That will do, thank you.”

    “Quite a ways,” murmured the messenger soulfully.

    Nobody offered him refreshment on the strength of this, but to say truth Mr Dinwoody was not expecting it.

    “You would take the Bournemouth stage if you were heading for Sare Park,” noted Mr Dearborn.

    “I do not believe a word of it!” said Mrs Dearborn angrily. “I dare say the chit wrote the note herself, and has absconded with some ineligible!”

    “Is this your cousin’s handwriting?” demanded Mr Dearborn grimly of his daughter.

    Belle grasped the note eagerly. “Ooh! Cousin Ricky has taken her to Lord Sare!”

    “Is that your cousin’s handwriting?” shouted her father.

    “Oh. Well, I don’t know, Papa. I don’t think I have ever seen it.”

    “Get out,” he said brutally.

    Belle rushed over to the door, eyes shining, very clearly intending to impart the news to, from the look of her, thought Mr Dinwoody sardonically, the entire household.

    “Belle!” said her mother sharply. “Do not breathe a word of this, if you please!”

    “But Mamma! Sare Park!”

    “I dare say—if this note is from the brother, of which there is no proof at all—that he has not taken her anywhere near Sare Park. If that was his intended destination, why should he be taking the common stage? But if it was, your father will contact his Lordship and the girl will be back under our roof within the week.”

    “Evangeline, I don’t think that would be wise,” said Mr Dearborn on an uncomfortable note. “I suppose the girl can lay claim to be Sare’s ward.”

    “We shall discuss that later, Mr Dearborn,” she returned grimly. “In the meantime, I forbid you to breathe a word of this matter, Belle. Do you understand?” she said in a steely voice.

    “Yes, Mamma. But I cannot see why it should not be true. Um, and what was all that about their grandfather?” she said in a bewildered voice.

    —Mr Dinwoody looked benignly upon Miss Dearborn. He had been praying, though not hoping, that someone would make that point in his hearing.

    “Mr Martin,” said Mrs Dearborn on an annoyed note, “recommended his grandchildren to your father’s care for the period of their minority. That is not a matter with which you need concern yourself.”

    “No, Mamma. –Sare Park!” breathed Belle with shining eyes.

    “That is ENOUGH!” shouted Mr Dearborn. “Silence! Never let me hear that name again! And get out!”

    Eyes shining, Miss Dearborn vanished.

    “Evangeline, we cannot fight Sare for the guardianship of the girl!” said Mr Dearborn urgently.

    Mrs Dearborn’s lips tightened. “Fellow, you may go,” she said grimly to the messenger.

    “Oh—yes. Be off with you,” said Mr Dearborn, belatedly realising that they were discussing their private matters in front of a perfect stranger.

    The messenger touched his hat but said wistfully: “It be a fair ride, from Axminster.”

    Ignoring that, Mr Dearborn rang the bell and ordered the footman to show him out.

    Looking sad, Mr Dinwoody allowed himself to be shown out of the front door of Dearborn House.

    No-one had watered his horse in the interval during which he had been inside. He was not surprised, but nonetheless patted its neck and said: “Sorry, old fellow. We’ll make a stop in the village, hey? Get you a bite and sup.” And mounted slowly, gradually allowing a pleased grin to spread over his blunt features.

    He was just about to set off when there was a patter of footsteps on the gravel and Miss Dearborn rushed round the corner of the house, panting. “Wait!” she gasped.

    Mr Dinwoody obligingly waited.

    “The young lady and gentleman who gave you the note!” gasped Belle.

    “Yes, Miss?”

    “Was she— Did she seem all right?”

    “I’d say so, Miss. Um, well, young lady in a print dress, with an old chip hat?”

    “Yes,” said Miss Dearborn, swallowing. “She did not take any of her gowns at all.”

    “She looked all right to me.”

    “Good. And—and—I suppose you could not tell,” said Miss Dearborn sadly, “if they looked like brother and sister?”

    “Uh—dunno, Miss.”

    “I mean, it—it could not have been an—an elopement, do you think?”

    “Dunno, Miss. They looked all right to me. Well, they was having a bit of an argument because the gent wanted to go post but the young lady, she said that it would be a waste of money and he was just like their Pa.”

    “Oh! But that proves it!” cried Miss Dearborn, clasping her hands.

    “Hey?”

    “That it really was her brother! So he has truly taken her to Sare Park! How exciting!”

    “Yes, Miss,” said the messenger stolidly.

    “Thank you so much!” she beamed.

    “That’s all right, Miss.”

    Miss Dearborn felt stealthily in her pocket. “Mamma does not approve of rewarding the lower orders for doing the work for which they are paid. But please take this sixpence!”

    Mr Dinwoody accepted the sixpence with grateful thanks, and rode off. As he did so a bewildered expression overtook Miss Dearborn’s lovely features and she said aloud: “But why did Cousin Ricky not come to the house in the normal way? How—how very odd!”

    Mr Dinwoody had overheard this. He waggled his eyebrows slightly, but did not look back.

    “Slow as a wet week,” he reported to the Briggses and Miss Martin over a large breakfast on the following day. –He had got back to Axminster very late, by which time Miss Martin had been fast asleep in the sheets that smelled of lavender, with Troilus on the foot of her bed.

    “Well, she is not a bright girl, no,” owned Belle’s cousin. “But she was always very pleasant to me.”

    “Aye. Seemed quite worried about you, Missy.”

    “There: her heart do be in the right place!” beamed Mrs Briggs.

    Mr Dinwoody sniffed. “Aye. Not like her ma or pa’s.”

    “Were they suspicious?” asked Mr Briggs.

    “That Mrs D., she’d suspect her own mother,” pronounced Mr Dinwoody judiciously. “Well, lessee. She picked that you might of writ the note yourself, Missy, and that there didn’t necessarily need to be no brother in it, at all. First off, she suspected you just run off with a fellow, but I mentioned that he ’ad red hair, so she finally gets it out of Miss Dearborn that you has mentioned your brother’s got red hair. –Thought that one were going to misfire, mind: Miss D. couldn’t seem to recall a thing,” he added.

    “Belle is not very interested in anything outside herself,” she admitted, biting her lip.

    “No; but it was all right, in the end. Oh, but watch out: them girls seem to know a fellow from over Exley St Paul. Um—Swallow was the name. Do it ring any bells?”

    “No, but I think Belle and Josephine know all of the genteel families from within quite a wide area.”

    “Yes, well, we better watch out, because we can’t be certain-sure that they won't come a-riding through the place in their barouche while you’re there with the theatricals, Missy. –What?” he said as her mouth twitched.

    “Not a barouche, dear Mr Dinwoody!” she gurgled. “No, well, it is a sore point with the females of the family, for Cousin Dearborn has refused to spend money on such an extravagance! But I take your point. –No, please, no more for me, Mrs Briggs,” she said as her hostess urged more preserved peaches and fresh Devonshire cream upon her.

    Mr Dinwoody owning that he didn't mind if he did, Mrs Briggs hospitably filled his bowl again. “Lessee,” he said, swallowing peaches and cream. “Mrs D. didn’t want to believe it was your brother, but I think she did in the end. Then she didn’t altogether believe he’d took you to Sare Park, only I think that was mostly wishful thinking. She wanted Mr D. to write to ’is Lordship and get you back, but he reminded ’er that you got a claim to be called ’is Lordship’s ward, so I think she more or less bit on the bullet. –Well,” he summed up heavily, “I don’t think they’ll write to Sare Park, because the bit about your grandfather’s will seems to of convinced them that your brother was onto their little game. Just as well we put that in, hey?”

    Miss Martin and the Briggses nodded feelingly.

    “Aye,” said Mr Dinwoody. “Think we came off all right and tight, Miss Martin.”

    “Buh-but what if they do write to Lord Sare?” she faltered.

    “Well, so what? They got to find you, don’t they? Think the trail will be cold by that time, Missy! I wouldn’t worry!” he said bracingly.

    “No, very true. Dear Mr Dinwoody, I cannot thank you enough!” she cried.

    “My pleasure, Miss Martin. Oh, you might like to know that Miss D. seemed quite upset that you hadn’t taken your clothes.”

    She blinked a little, and nodded. “Yes. She has decent instincts, but I think, growing up in that household, has never had a chance to develop them. Um—you did not see dear Miss Skate, did you?”

    “No, and just as well, acos she would of smelled a rat, and ten to one Mrs D. would of spotted summink was up. Now, don’t you go thinking you better write to her nor nothing silly like that!” he adjured her.

    “No. I should like to, but it would not be sensible,” she said firmly.

    “That's the ticket, Miss Martin!” approved Mr Dinwoody, beaming.

    Major Martin’s daughter had spent two whole days under Mr Briggs’s roof before—perhaps under the influence of the generous helpings of excellent food that Mrs Briggs pressed upon her—her brain began to function at its normal rate, and she started to wonder, just a little, about Mr Dinwoody’s account of the news of Mr Hartington’s planned visit to Exley St Paul. Certainly Mr Briggs would have told him, had he known of it; but would Mrs Lilian, in view of the existence of Mrs Briggs, actually have written to Briggsy?

    That evening Mr Briggs did not appear from his place of work at the normal hour, and as Mrs Briggs had begun to fuss, she volunteered eagerly to go and fetch him. The buckle-maker had dozens of out-workers, she had now discovered, all around the district, but they mostly did the finishing of the buckles: the cruder labour, which consisted of melting metal and pouring into moulds, for most of his buckles were of brass, pewter, or gun-metal, was done at a small foundry in the town itself. A very exciting place to visit. Prudently leaving Troilus behind, foundries not being particularly safe places for small dogs, she set off eagerly.

    Mr Briggs was discovered deep in consultation with one, Bill Drake (no relation to Sir Francis), over the design of a new buckle. The which was not pouring properly.

    “Lord, do that be the time?” he said, on Miss Martin’s popping up at his elbow.

    “Yes,” she said, peering eagerly at the work. “Is something wrong with the moulds, Mr Briggs?”

    Very pleased that Miss Martin had so quickly seized the essentials of buckle manufacture, Mr Briggs expounded at length. Eventually deciding that the design was too intricate for the pour, and they must try a new mixture; but tomorrow would do, Bill Drake! With a hearty buffet on the shoulder.

    “I was thinking,” he confided as they made their way towards home, “of getting a new young fellow in. One what’s been learned up in the chemistry of it all.”

    “I see: a man who knows about metals? That sounds an excellent idea, sir.”

    “Aye… Well, would not help nohow with the bone or mother-of-pearl side of the trade!” he said with his robust chuckle. “No, but the bulk custom, it do lie with the metal side, there’s no denying. And it don’t do to be behind the times, in business, little Missy.” He tucked her hand into his arm, and patted it, as he spoke.

    She agreed, and for a while they talked about buckles, and chemists, and where Mr Briggs might hope to find such a young man.

    “Not worrying, are you, me dear?” he said lightly as it dawned that she had fallen very silent.

    “No—um—Mr Briggs,” she ventured, “may I ask, who was it who wrote to apprise you that—that the players were coming down?”

    “Hey? –Oh!” he said with a start. “That! Um, well it were just a note.” He cleared his throat. “Coming to Exley St Paul, they be.”

    Feeling very mean and deceitful, but also feeling somewhat desperately that she must know—for what if Mr Dinwoody had concocted it all out of the kindness of his heart and made Mr Briggs agree to take her in?—she said: “Mrs Hetty is coming, is she?”

    “Uh—well, I dunno, me dear!” he said with his kindly chuckle. “Dessay she might be; dessay they all might be!”

    “Mr Briggs,” she said firmly, drawing a deep breath, “I really think that it might be best if you told me the truth.”

    “Eh? Oh,” said Mr Briggs glumly. “My old dad, he did always say that me face were me worst enemy, and ’ow could a fellow what couldn’t tell a convincing lie to save his life ’ope to succeed in business? No, well, Jonas Briggs ain’t out to do any fellow down, and they may take me as they do find me! Um, well, come you in, Miss Martin, dear, and Mother and I will tell you all about it.”

    Since, as was his wont, he had talked his deductions over very frankly with Mrs Briggs, she was not completely surprised to be met with the announcement that Miss Martin had best be told it all. And agreed that she should be; but first they must wash their hands for supper.

    Over the supper, a most sustaining repast indeed, incorporating as it did a giant ham, quantities of Mrs Briggs’s own relishes, and small hot chicken pies, which Mrs Briggs explained comfortably were Jonas’s favourite, Mr Briggs revealed: “Well, to tell you the truth, me dear, I didn’t hear from the actors at all.”

    “Then Mr Dinwoody made it all up?” she cried.

    “No, no; they do be coming, all right and tight!” he assured her. “Mr Akers, from over Exley St Paul, he was in the King’s Head only t’other day, said there was a fellow with a ’uge cart come, said it was stuff for the play, and where was the playhouse? At which they all did laugh most ’earty, me dear, for there don’t be no playhouse nor nothing like it, in Exley St Paul! And Mr Akers, he set the fellow right: said ’e must want the great house, you see.”

    “Go on, Jonas, tell her what you worked out,” prompted Mrs Briggs.

    First noting that she had done them proud this evening, and that he could manage another chicken pie, if there were one going begging, Mr Briggs proceeded to reveal to Miss Martin his speculations with regard to Mr Dinwoody, Mr Peebles, and Mr Lefayne.

    “I see,” she said, going very pink.

    “Think it must of been Mr Lefayne,” repeated Mr Briggs. “For them others, much though they might like to, ain’t got two pennies to rub together, between the lot of them.”

    “No,” she said limply, thinking of the guinea that had got into Mrs Deane’s pocket.

    “And Peebles is a decent fellow, but while he might want to set a stout fellow to watch over you, he ain’t got the gelt,” he repeated.

    “No,” she agreed, pinker than ever.

    “Aye, you said, Jonas, dear; there do be no need to bludgeon it into the girl’s head!” said Mrs Briggs on a severe note. “Maudie Tonks!” she called loudly, ringing the bell.

    Maudie Tonks shot in. “Yes, ma’am?”

    “Clear away these empty dishes, and bring in the apple pie. –Well, they’re bottled, at this season, Miss Martin, dear, the apples aren’t ready yet, but they do make up into a tasty pie,” she explained.

    “I am sure. You must do a great deal of preserving, in the season, Mrs Briggs.”

    “Aye, that I do!” Mrs Briggs launched into a description of how her household and those of her daughter and daughter-in-law, and the daughter-in-law’s mother, who was a close friend and neighbour, generally joined forces in the preserving season, and did theirs all together. Ending: “Mind you, pickles is different. If there’s cutting and slicing as do be needed, well and good. But a body needs to concentrate her mind, on the pickles.”

    “And Mother do concentrate hers wonderful well, for hers do be the best in the whole county!” said Mr Briggs proudly.

    Mrs Briggs scoffed and bridled, obviously very pleased. But her bright blue eyes were very sharp, and she soon decided that Missy had had a long day, and had best be off to her bed. Whereat Miss Martin kissed them both shyly, and obediently took herself off.

    Mrs Briggs gave her about half an hour, and then tiptoed along to her room. “Asleep yet, deary?” she breathed.

    “No,” she said faintly.

    Mrs Briggs could hear tears in her voice. She came in and sat down on the edge of the bed, absently patting Troilus and telling him to lie down like a good dog. Troilus settled himself against his mistress’s legs with a huffing noise. “So, what’s all this, then?” she said mildly.

    “Nothing; it’s just suh-silly.”

    “You’re safe here with us, you know, deary. Jonas won’t let no ’arm come to you.”

    “Yes, I know,” she said, sniffing. “It’s not that. I just— Are you sure that Mr Lefayne commissioned Mr Dinwoody to keep an eye on me?”

    “We-ell… Seems likely, aye, though Jonas ain’t asked him right out, yet. Don’t see ’ow he could possibly know they was all a-coming down here if he wasn’t in touch with one of them. And who else?”

    “No, well, I agree, he seems the likeliest…”

    Mrs Briggs patted her arm. After a moment she said: “Did you want it to be the other one, deary?”

    “No!”

    Mrs Briggs said nothing and after a moment Miss Martin explained: “Mr Lefayne is very—very attractive and—and an older man, you see.”

    According to Mr Briggs there was probably only a couple of years between him and Peebles, but Roland Lefayne was a very pretty fellow indeed. Attracted the ladies like flies, in fact. “Mm,” she agreed mildly.

    “He goes to supper parties with pretty ladies.” She sniffled, and felt under the pillow for her handkerchief. “I mean, of course they are pretty; but persons from the upper class.”

    “Aye, well, no better than they should be; you do get females like that in all walks of life, and that do be a fact.”

    “Yes. And it—it sounds vulgar to say so, but he can take his pick.”

    “Well, it do sound like ’e can, deary: yes.”

    “Mm. And although he was always very good to me, I did not think… I mean, I suppose he was more like an uncle. And—and now I don’t know what to think!”

    “Ah. I see, yes.” She waited, but the girl didn’t say any more, so she ventured: “So, what about Mr Peebles?”

    “He is a very kind man, and… I did think, originally, that perhaps he had written to Mr Briggs. But Mr Briggs is quite right: he could never pay a man to keep a watch over me. Added to which, I don’t think he would ever encourage Mr Dinwoody to help me to run away from my cousins, because he is a very proper person… And a mouse!” An angry sob escaped her.

    Oh, dear, oh, dear, thought the experienced Mrs Briggs. She did not say anything, however, merely patted the girl’s back for a while, gave her a clean handkerchief, and, when she seemed more settled, kissed her cheek lightly and took herself off.

    “Well, one good thing,” she reported to Mr Briggs with a sigh, settling in her chair by the fireplace, “it ain’t Bert Dinwoody as she’s been and gone and fallen for.”

    Mr Briggs had a choking fit.

    “Stranger things ’ave happened. Good sort of fellow, mind. But it wouldn’t do.”

    “Nay. So which is it?”

    “Well, don’t you say a thing to her, Jonas. But I think she was hoping that that Peebles might be the one what was keeping an eye out for her. Said she thought ’e might’ve writ you a line—pity you didn’t think to say ’e did, wouldn’t of done no harm. Girls of that age, they do grow out of these fancies. She got real cross, and said he was a mouse,” she said, shaking her head.

    Mr Briggs had the grace to swallow at this echo of Mrs Deane’s phrase. “Oh,” he said somewhat lamely. “Well, half of them thought that, as far as I could make out.”

    She eyed him tolerantly. “I dare say. Did they get real cross about it, though?”

    “No,” he admitted glumly.

    “Well, there you are. Added to which, think she had put this Mr Lefayne right out of her head. And now he’s been and got in it again. Quite overset her, poor lass.”

    He gaped at her. “Look ’ere, Mary Briggs, it can’t be both of ’em!”

    “At her age? Of course it can, lasses are like that. She’ll grow out of it,” she said comfortably.

    “Let’s hope so. I wouldn’t say neither of them was suitable for a nice young lady.”

    “Nor would I,” said Mrs Briggs placidly. “Mind you,” she added after a few moments, “you could ask that Bert Dinwoody for the truth. Get him in the King’s Head over a glass of cider.”

    “Ale, is his tipple. Well, I might, at that.”

    Mr Dinwoody sipped ale slowly. “Ah. Not a bad drop. Well, I won’t say as you’re right, Mr Briggs, but I won’t say as you’re wrong, neither. I will say, my principal ’as give me strict orders not to reveal ’is name to no-one. And just as well someone’s looking out for the little lass! –’Ave another cider, on me.”

    Fairly well satisfied with this answer, Mr Briggs accepted the cider happily. And was emboldened to say after he had sunk half of it: “So, quite a warm man, is he?”

    “You could say that, yes.”

    “Aye. –Don’t need to live at Mr Buxleigh’s, then, do ’e?”

    “No, ’e don’t need to do that,” agreed Mr Dinwoody calmly.

    “No, well, dessay he’s comfortable. Mother and me, we did think of removing to a smarter part of town, but there! We been in Little New Street a fair bit now, and all our friends be near us. No point in upping stakes if you’re comfortable where you is.”

    “No point at all. Your health, Mr Briggs!” replied Mr Dinwoody, lifting his tankard to him.

    In the wake of this conversation Mr Briggs reported happily to his spouse, and incidentally to Miss Martin, who was being instructed in the art of real Devon apple pies, apparently quite different from anything that might get prepared on the Continent, that he had been quite right and it was Mr Lefayne as was paying Dinwoody.

    Mr Dinwoody, in the wake of this conversation, sat down to scratch out a note to his patron. The letter was couched in somewhat military terms, but was certainly to the point.

The Undersigned Begs to report.

1. C.M. settled with Mr & Mrs B. Mr B. has ferret out I am sent down by Mr L. Please advise if further evvasive action needed.

2. All clear on D. front. Tacticks successfull. They believe C.M. gone to Sare P.

3. Still no sign of bro. here. Must be still abroad.

Am continuing to keep watch as ordered.

     Albert Dinwoody.

    Sad to relate, its recipient laughed very much over it.

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/in-rehearsal.html